


when lights close their tired eyes

by littledust



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 02:18:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While working late at Pemberley, Darcy happens upon Lizzie working on her thesis in one of the nap pods. They come to an understanding. In the nap pod.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when lights close their tired eyes

**Author's Note:**

> So here is the nap pod I envision half of this fic taking place on! Let's hope they're built to be sturdy. A big, hearty THANK YOU to Naomi/anachronistique, who let me C&P bits of the fic to her as I wrote it.
> 
> Also, the title of the story comes from "Sunshine of Your Love" by Cream.

It's midnight and it feels as though his eyeballs are vibrating ever so gently. Darcy massages his cheeks with the tips of his fingers and thinks that perhaps it might be time to retire for the evening. The trouble with the two graphic designers is sorted the best any bitter dispute about font selection can be, and he's reasonably caught up on the four hours of actual work he missed. He removes his phone from his desk drawer and turns it back on, wincing when he sees the number of missed messages from Gigi.

Six hours ago: _Remember to eat! Don't drink any more coffee!_

Five hours ago: _Coming home any time soon?_

Four hours ago: _Do you think the cameramen on the Food Network get to eat the leftovers?_

Three hours ago: _In retrospect, the scary movie + empty house was a bad life choice._

Two hours ago: _I'll have a change of clothes sent over in the morning. =( You work too hard!_

One hour ago: _I've changed my mind, I'm not signing you up for Workaholics Anonymous! You should actually take a nap in one of the pods!!!! xoxo_

The last message is... an interesting about face. Darcy feels a slightly smaller twinge of guilt than usual as he packs up his things, including his travel mug, his secret travel mug Gigi knows about, and his extra secret travel mug that Gigi might not have discovered yet. Gigi looks out for him in her own way, though Darcy honestly prefers the endless (and hypocritical once she hit college) lectures on caffeine intake to her interferences with his love life.

Or lack thereof.

That train of thought leads only to painful destinations. Darcy snaps shut his briefcase and stares at his coat. The comfort of his bed beckons, yet sleeping there for a mere five hours hardly seems worth it. Gigi is already sending him a change of clothes. Why not try out the new nap pods, as per her suggestion? They look like something out of science fiction, but his employees swear to their comfort.

Darcy heads downstairs.

Pemberley Digital at night is an all too familiar sight, familiar enough that he doesn't bother turning on lights as he heads over to the nap pods, located in a room near the back of the building. Darcy makes his footsteps as audible as possible without stomping his feet. Ever since the terrible scare he gave one of the night custodians, he's learned to make his presence known.

There's a light on in the unofficially dubbed "nap room," but that's hardly unusual. The company hosts many workaholics, some of whom keep the same terrible hours he does. Darcy toes off his shoes outside the door, tiptoeing now in case whoever is still here has fallen asleep. He stops himself from dropping his shoes from suddenly numb fingers as he sees _who_ is still at Pemberley Digital at well past midnight on a weekday.

Lizzie is sitting cross-legged in one of the nap pods, hunched over her laptop as she types with furious concentration. Her hair is braided, but several strands have escaped to hang loose around her face. She has an extra large gray sweatshirt on and her light but normally immaculate makeup is smudged. Were Darcy to venture a guess to explain her presence, he would say she fell asleep working earlier, woke up, and decided that since she was still at work, she might as well change into something more comfortable and get some more work done. He knows the feeling.

Familiar longing grips him and he concentrates on simply breathing. Part of him wants to cry foul that the sight of her should have a such a marked effect on him while the reverse is not true. Another part of him wants to sit beside her, to rest his chin on her shoulder and inquire what she's working on. The rest of him keeps still.

She looks up, of course, and jerks back, eyes going wide. "Darcy!"

"I'm here," he says, because those are the first two words that spring to mind. He follows that brilliance with: "So are you."

"Right," Lizzie says, shutting her laptop and pushing it away from her in one jerky motion. "Sorry about this, I was just working on my thesis. I promise I actually have a place to stay, I'll get going--"

"I don't mind," Darcy says, and pauses to breathe a silent prayer of thanks that he just said something _not_ completely inane. While he's at it, he adds a second thanks for Fitz not being around to witness this.

But Lizzie is still putting away her laptop, pausing to tuck some longer strands of hair behind her ears before she reaches out to pick her laptop case off the floor. She can't see it from her position, though, so her fingers miss the handle by a few inches. Before Darcy has time to think, he leans across her to retrieve the case. He knocks her hand aside in her second attempt, which startles him into tipping further forward, catching himself with one knee on the nap pod. His grab for the handle is more the result of gravity than grace, but by clamping his other hand around the edge of the pod's privacy visor, he manages to brandish the case with a triumphant flourish.

"Um," Lizzie says. She's clutching her laptop to her chest, probably fearful of it falling prey to helpful oafs.

Her face is much closer than it was thirty seconds ago.

"This is yours," Darcy says, depositing the case on her lap before he can say anything like _your eyes remind me of my favorite lake_ or _every time you say the word "thesis" I want to kiss you_ or something equally horrifying.

"Thanks."

"You look tired," Darcy blurts out. "You should sleep. Or take a break. Or... rest. Thesis writing is a taxing business."

Her lips curve into a smile at that. "It can't be any more taxing than being a CEO, unless you want to get into some serious IRS puns."

He answers her smile (and her joke) with a laugh. "I'm sure you've thought of several clever ones already." He should move out of her personal space, but this is a Lizzie Bennet smile directed at _him_ , one that just grew more pleased because of his words rather than disappearing entirely. He wants to stay as close as she'll allow.

Then she runs her fingers through his hair and Darcy forgets how to breathe.

"Sorry!" Lizzie says, her cheeks darkening to a deep, mortified red. "Your hair was messed up from--leaning, gravity, thing--you know, it's past time I left--"

"Stay," Darcy says, soft, because for once his mouth and his brain and his heart are aligned. "Stay."

Lizzie goes still at that, merriment replaced by thoughtfulness. If she's actually considering the proposal, then what does that mean? Have her feelings actually changed? Darcy lets himself entertain the hope for just a moment, the larger part of him fixed on memorizing the color of her hair in half-light, and then she slides her laptop into its case. The sound of the zipper punctuates the dashing of his hopes. Except then she lowers the case gently to the ground once more, which is odd.

"Okay," Lizzie says, leaning up to kiss him.

Darcy meets her halfway, of course, drawn forward from the moment the second syllable left her lips. And her lips are warm, tasting of vanilla from what he assumes is her lipgloss. She opens her mouth, drawing him further in with a decidedly satisfied noise. He places on hand at the small of her back, tangles the other in the fine hairs at the nape of her neck, and lowers her down onto the cushions, shifting so that he's lying atop her. It's an uncomfortable position--nap pods aren't meant for lying on one's stomach (or on top of another person)--but he doesn't care, not when her hands are in his hair again, tugging just hard enough that he groans.

Lizzie gives his chest a gentle push and Darcy moves back, barely missing hitting the back of his head on the privacy visor. "Just moving you. Lie down," she murmurs, and his momentary panic fades, though the thrum of adrenaline remains. He lies back, obedient, and she climbs on top of him, the nap pod's design more forgiving of her smaller frame. He kisses her neck, the point just under her earlobe, as his hands settle over her hips. She fits on his lap as though they were made for each other. It's a silly thought, the stuff of the romance novels Gigi used to leave around the house, but Lizzie has a way of making these softer things sincere somehow.

He brushes over a spot on her neck that makes her outright giggle, so he presses his advantage, following the shameless scrape of his teeth with his tongue until she gasps and rocks against him, her hips flush with his. She _writhes_ her way out of her sweatshirt--there's no other word to describe the motion combined with the look in her eyes--and then, when he places his hands back on her hips, a respectful distance from all the skin she's just bared, she rolls her eyes, takes his hands in hers, and presses both hands to her breasts in her thin white tank top. Her nipples are already hard. Darcy swallows.

The pause lasts for only an instant. When she draws breath, her chest moves forward, and his hands tighten in reflex. Lizzie's eyes flutter closed, so Darcy continues kneading her breasts, the pads of his fingers pressing into the softness of her skin. He doesn't want to hurt her, but she arches her back appreciatively the harder he squeezes, so he does it again and again and again, breathing harder with every contended noise she makes until his every exhale becomes her name.

Lizzie tips forward, kissing his mouth with a ferocity he normally associates with defending her sisters, and starts on the buttons of his shirt. He shucks dress shirt and undershirt alike and helps Lizzie peel out of her tank top, then they're pressed chest to chest. He runs his hand down her back and it feels as though there are miles of hot skin bared before him. "Lizzie," he says, burying his face in her neck, the strands of her loosened braid tickling his face.

"I changed my mind about you, obviously," Lizzie says, massaging his shoulders. "I didn't know how to tell you, so I kind of... hung around. Not very grownup of me." She drags her nails lightly down his back and Darcy groans again, louder this time. She pushes him back against the cushions, mouth curling into a smile he's never seen before but would happily spend the rest of his life trying to see again. "You're a swell guy, William Darcy."

The warmth in his chest has nothing and everything to do with the heat in his groin. Darcy finds his tongue long enough to confess, "I still." He leaves the sentence incomplete, letting the words _love you_ fall into the distance between them, distance they must cross in another conversation. Now is perhaps not the best time.

Lizzie presses a kiss to his forehead. "I have a condom in my bag. Hang on." She slides off him and fishes the small foil package out of her purse, tossing it over to him as she unbuttons her jeans. "I was never a Boy Scout, but it never hurts to be prepared!" she quips, then winces at her own words.

Darcy grins, delighted. "I was a Boy Scout."

"Of course you were."

It's difficult to remove the rest of his clothes while watching Lizzie strip off shoes, socks, and pants, but Darcy manages. She blushes when she catches him staring, and this time he can see the flush spread to her chest as well. When she settles on top of him once more, he cups his face in her hands and kisses her forehead, mirroring her gesture from earlier. She turns her head to kiss one of his palms, answering his unasked question. Yes, she wants to continue. Yes, she wants him. Yes, she _likes_ him. Yes.

Darcy hands her the condom and she tears open the wrapper. He goes still when she grips his erection in her small hand and rolls the condom on with the other, movements steady. She actually pauses to admire her handiwork, then flashes him a cheeky little smile. "Come here," he says, low in his throat, and this time when his hands slide to her hips, she lets them stay there as she lowers herself onto him. He wants to remember every detail, every line and color, but his eyes close at the _feel_ of her. He'll memorize this: the tight wet heat, the fever hot bloom of her skin under his fingertips, the tingle of surprise when her mouth finds his again.

They find a rhythm without much effort. Lizzie sets the pace, keeps it sweetly, achingly slow at first. Darcy maps everything of her he can reach with eyes, hands, mouth; he wants to know every part of her, learn Lizzie on her own terms and in her own time. He almost missed her, missed _this_ , because he tried to dictate the terms of their relationship in the first place. But he has no time for regrets, not now, with Lizzie above him and beginning to pick up the pace, hissing _yes yes yes yes yes_ when he yanks her closer.

Lizzie is _vocal_ during sex, gasps and murmurs giving way to full-throated cries. The first time she throws her head back and moans, "Oh, _yes_ ," Darcy has to bite his lip so hard he tastes blood to prevent from coming then and there. Not before she does, he wants to see her, he wants-- Darcy jerks his hips up and then down again, Lizzie pressing down and pushing him deeper, their makeshift bed shaking with their efforts. Her sounds aren't words anymore and everything is red: her mouth, her hair, her pulse. She's so wet and slick that he can feel himself _sliding_ inside of her, and he wants to come but he _can't_ , not until he can see her hear her feel her. He's clumsy with lust, finds her clitoris with the knuckle of his index finger rather than the tip, but she grinds against it, moaning and unsteady, and she buries her face in his shoulder as she clenches around him.

"Lizzie," he pants, because he has to _ask_ , "is it okay, can I--"

" _Yes_ ," she says, so Darcy pulls her against him, hips lifting off the nap pod entirely as he pushes as deep inside of her as he can go, arms and legs trembling from effort and then from orgasm. He's shaking; he's always shaken by Lizzie Bennet. He collapses back onto the cushioning, Lizzie a warm weight on top of him. His eyes are closed again and her cheek is mashed uncomfortably against his nose. He can't remember the last time he was this happy.

"Mmm," she says, and tucks her head more comfortably between his neck and his shoulder. He can feel her eyelashes brush his skin, feel her lips curve when she smiles. He runs one hand lazily up and down her back because that's all the movement he can muster at the moment. He turns his head to kiss her hairline because he can, tucking one sweat-dampened strand of hair behind her ear. "We shouldn't fall asleep here," she says, voice hazy.

"It's my room," Darcy says. "I suspect this will become my personal nap pod. Or yours, if you prefer."

"Ours, even," Lizzie says, then sits up with a huge yawn. "Seeing as we christened it. Sorry, I need to get up before I actually fall asleep."

"Of course," Darcy says, and despite himself, his heart sinks as she gets dressed again, piece by piece. They can't stay here. It would be absurd. He'll have to send out an emergency furniture cleaning notice as it is, and possibly (definitely) have the pod transferred to his office. Why would Lizzie choose staying with him over the prospect of her own bed? He gathers his own clothing, too weary to button all of his buttons.

Then Lizzie sits back down next to him and lays one tentative hand over his. "I don't want to impose or presume or anything, but you should go to bed, too."

Darcy stares at her, confused. "Would you like me to drive you home?"

She bursts out laughing; apparently he said something funny. "Okay, so what I'm trying to ask is your place or mine?"

The joke, apparently, is his total inability to read people. He doesn't mind when it's Lizzie making it, smiles and kisses her again because he _can_ , because she likes him. "I have a comfortable bed. Very spacious."

"You also have a little sister living with you," she reminds him, voice dry. "My place it is."

Darcy remembers her saying _ours_. Perhaps someday they'll go back to _their_ home. Until then, they have this.


End file.
